Reflections on Fear, and Being Human
I wrote the following essay in April 2025, while sitting in the garden behind my home. The images are ones I took on my phone while gardening, as well as a digital sketch I created.
These days the news sounds like the plot of a political thriller; everything crashing down around us, on top of us.
I talk about The Handmaid’s Tale in therapy; the way it has to feel at least a little otherworldly so it isn’t too threatening. It’s the flashbacks that are the most terrifying to watch.
Two women on a run go into a coffee shop and their cards get declined. The man at the register calls them sluts. They laugh at his audacity and throw the insults back at him. Like I would.
But then they are watching the news in horror. Then they are running from bullets. Then they are interrogated and separated at the border when they try to flee.
Dress it all up in red cloaks and it sounds like a fantasy world. It’s not-real enough to watch without flinching, most of the time.
But I started a book once that was too real. No massive culture shock, just a system driving its citizens—its subjects—into the dust.
A woman who wanted a child and couldn’t have one. A woman who wanted an abortion and couldn’t have one. A woman hiding in the woods and living off the land, watching the fallout from a distance.
I could stare at this little screen in my hand (I will. I am.) but not today. Not when the sun is bright, and the birds are singing. Not when the compost bin is ready to be sifted and spread in the garden. Not when the earthworms are growing, and the strawberries are blooming, and the grass is cool and damp under my bare feet.
I don’t know what to do about the men in the high tower, but I know how to build a garden bed. I know how to return the food to the earth. I know how to build back the nutrients in the soil. I know how to plant potatoes. I know how to care for the worms. I know how to rest when it’s time. I know how to gaze at the flower buds with the wonder of a child who is too young to remember their last spring.
I know how to live.
I cannot stand long enough to go to a protest; but there are those who can, and will. There is no shame in being with the body that you have. No guilt in playing the hand you were dealt.
You do not have to sacrifice yourself, even for peace. Even to tear down the palace. With shame in one hand, and perfection in the other, you will destroy nothing except yourself.
The revolution may not be won without casualties, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be won with love.
Love can be loud. It can be angry. It can be unyielding. It can demand reparations. It can hold great sorrow and great joy all at once. It can grieve.
Listen to the organizers. I’m not one. I don’t know the strategy. I don’t know how to play the game. I don’t even know the rules.
But I do know about being human. And if you can do only one thing, do that. It’s the deepest root of any rebellion.
The people who hold the reins wants you to forget the humanity: inside others, inside yourself. They do not want to have to pay someone to police you. They’d rather train you to do it yourself. They do not want to lock you up. They’d prefer you isolate yourself out of fear. They do not want to get their hands dirty. Why, when they could sit back and watch you dig your own grave?
I won’t do it. I’ll sink my hands into the soil, but I’m not burying anything.
I’m planting.
This blog was first published on April 1st, 2025, on my Substack. The original post can be viewed here.
